“That’s why it’s advanced manifesting and why I have to pay for it.”
“Why do you want to manifest Nixon?”
“So I can kick his ass for the War on Drugs.”
“You’re not satisfied by the fact that he’s dead?”
“No, this shit ispersonal.”
Goldie gives him a look. “You’re not allowed to watch YouTube anyone.”
We cut straight for the stand-alone garage at the edge of the lot. It’s a hefty building you could crash a tank into and it would probably throw the tank back out again, unimpressed. Even in daylight the place is hulking, the roof sloped low and wide, a tough old animal sunning itself in the clearing. Shingles black with weather, patched here and there, but nothing on the verge of collapse. If anything, the roof’s got years in it before it needs the overhaul Molly’s asked for.
Goldie stands back, arms crossed, scrutinizing the sightline up to the eaves. “We want it redone.”
I tilt my head, letting my eyes travel the length of the structure, counting the nail pops and warped corners. There are a few, sure, but it’s not catastrophic. “It’s not that bad,” I say, more to confirm what I already know.
Mayhem grins. “That’s what I said. Then Molly gave me a look that made my soul leave my body, and suddenly I was like, ‘Yep, the roof’s fucked.’”
Goldie’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sharp. “We do preventative. We don’t wait for leaks.”
“Smart,” I say automatically.
It’s not the roof I’m thinking about; it’s the fact that this isn’t about a leak. This is about Molly. A favor. A pull. A string shetugged in a world where strings come attached to knives, but she did it because she believed the lie I sunk into her. The lie that’s going to rip her heart out.
Goldie watches my face, his mouth a neutral line, but his eyes are the kind that could weigh a man’s heart without breaking a sweat. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” I adjust my grip on the tool bag. “Just want to make sure you’re not paying for work you don’t need.”
Mayhem laughs. “Buddy, we pay for lots of things we don’t need. Like bail.”
Goldie crosses his arms. “Do the work. Do it right.”
“I will,” I say. “What’s your timeline?”
“However long it takes,” Goldie replies. “We care about the quality, not the timeline.” Then Goldie steps closer, lowering his voice. “One thing.”
“Yeah?”
His gaze stays locked on mine. “We don’t have strangers up here. And since you’re up here, literally, you need to make sure you’re keeping to where you belong. Not to put any bad vibes your way, but keep your business to working on the roof, and if you need anything, you ask someone in a cut, you got it?”
I nod. “Understood.”
Mayhem claps his hands. “You want company, or you want us to leave you with your thoughts and some unsafe power tools?”
“I’m good alone,” I say. “I don’t trust you.”
“Probably a good call.”
Goldie nods, satisfied. “You’ll have eyes on you. For insurance.”
I sling my tool bag over my shoulder. The ladder’s already leaning against the garage, the kind with the rungs slightly worn smooth in the middle from years of boots. I take a breath, tasting the old wood smoke and the crispness of morning. Somewherenearby, the steady thunk of an axe splits the morning, rhythmic and practiced. I put a boot on the ladder and climb.
Every rung brings me higher, the ground falling away. My stomach drops with each step, but it’s not the height that does it. It’s the feeling of being visible, all the way up here where anyone in the lot could take a shot if they wanted. Or just watch. I scan the windows of the clubhouse, and sure enough, faces move in the glass. A slow parade of Devils, some with coffee, some with beers, all of them making mental notes.
When I reach the top, I swing a leg over, plant it firmly, and hoist myself onto the roof. The shingles are warm under my palm. I take a knee and unzip the bag, hands moving automatically: pry bar, measuring tape, nail puller, chalk. The tools of my temporary trade. I line them up, neat, the way my dad taught me, and exhale through my nose.
Below, Goldie and Mayhem stand with their heads cocked back, faces half in shadow.
